


the gaps in between

by rogueone



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Death, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, kind of?, this is very much about bucky and his friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 09:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogueone/pseuds/rogueone
Summary: steve died at the end of civil war, bucky keeps on keepin on as best he can.





	the gaps in between

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something just to write it. not to post it or even finish it. i haven't slept today and i just. wanted to do something  
> i dont know   
> this is a tiny gift from me to myself to u

 

"You need to shave."

If Bucky's learned one thing, it's that Natasha has a nasty habit of letting herself in in a massive array of silent and vaguely terrifying ways.  
"I like it, it makes me look roguish. And anyway, while we're accusing each other, _you_ need to knock. I could've been-" Bucky gestures vaguely, "naked. Or something."  
Natasha raises a single unimpressed eyebrow, "You're lucky I'm willing to take time out of my busy day to check up on you like this. Really, I'm like a guardian angel."  
Bucky groans. As exhausting as it may be, it's endearing that Natasha worries as much as she does.  
"What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were kicking alien ass somewhere."  
"Aliens?"  
"I wasn't really listening."  
She rolls her eyes. She's sitting on the windowsill (presumably how she came in) watching Bucky, laying on his couch watching the History Channel. And, yeah. He can see how it might look pathetic to untrained eyes.  
"I got home last night, actually. I thought I'd check in, but clearly you have everything under control here. Because this is what you do. And you seem to be fine with that."  
"You don't seem convinced."  
Natasha hovers for a moment, something unreadable in her eye. She does this; she comes, she quips, she watches, she leaves. In a strange way, she's the perfect friend. Bucky doesn't much like the watching, though, because he knows it means that she's worrying over him. He doesn't need it, not really. He keeps telling everyone he's fine, because he is. Because sometimes he can even _smell_ him. He feels him everywhere. He has to be fine, surrounded by his friends.  
"Well," Natasha says, "I'll bring dinner by tonight, alright?"

 

.

 

"Dude, when was the last time you shaved?"  
Bucky groans for what feels like the fiftieth time today, "You too, Sam? Why does everyone keep saying that? It's the _look_."  
"If 'the look' is repressing all that dark shit you got in there," An accusatory point to the chest, "I think you nailed it."  
"Ugh, dude. I do what you ask, I come to the VA, and what am I treated to? Disrespect. And Slander."  
"It's kind of my job, Bucky. I mean you know that, right? You know what a VA is?"  
Bucky knows, obviously. He knows Sam, and he knows that this has always been his relationship with Sam. He's a mother bird by nature and Bucky's always been a consistent source of worry for his loved ones. His poor ma: telling him to stop fighting the neighbourhood boys. The lovely Sarah Rogers: cleaning his scraped knees when he didn't listen. Steve: everything. And now, Steve's friends (Bucky's friends, he keeps reminding himself).  
He feels a vague sense of guilt that they all spend their time trying to help Bucky when he was _their_ friend.  
"Sam, I'm doing fine. Honest," Bucky says, "It's been a year. I don't need everyone still worrying over me like this."  
Sam sighs, like he does, and says like it's nothing: "I like hanging out with you. I like talking to you. I'm your friend, all of us are, and we're allowed to ask if things are okay, you know?"  
Bucky hums at that, "Thanks, really."  
And he leaves it at that, because Sam can read him like a book.

 

.

 

"Dude! Nice beard!"  
Bucky nearly moans, "Clint, buddy, I swear you're the love of my life. You just _get_ me."  
Clint is incredible for a great number of reasons: he and Bucky go for coffee every day, he has a fantastic dog, he brings pizza to Bucky's for dinner every week, and he didn't tell Bucky to shave.  
"If only all my gentlemen callers were as charming as you," Clint grins, "Nat said dinner at yours tonight."  
"Please come. I can only take so much of her glare before I keel over."  
"She means well. She's just," a shudder, "intense. Gotta love her for it."  
Bucky knows this too. And he does love her; how can't he? When she takes so much time to build this strange, careful routine around him.  
"Yeah. I know. But a guy can only take so many threatening pieces of life advice in one day, you know?"  
Clint laughs, "Believe me, buddy, I know."

 

.

 

(He remembers seeing Natasha cry, and until that point he wasn't entirely sure it was possible.  
He wanted to ask her about Steve, about when he woke up. He knew she wanted to ask about him too; when they were kids, the war, the rumours.  
They didn't, though. Because in that instant of stunning realization, they knew each other.)

 

.

 

Dinner is always loud and brash and everything Bucky loves about his friends.

 

.

 

His look in the mirror is long and accusatory.  
He runs a flesh hand along his beard, and he gets it. He always got it, actually.  
He looks terrible.  
"See this?" He says to no one, "See how I'm lookin' now? Pathetic, right?"  
He clips his beard and laughs.  
"Bet you're having a riot, huh? I swear, you'd get off on me suffering."  
He shaves clean down his cheek, "Yeah, laugh it up, punk. I know you are. Because you're a selfish prick, always leaving me behind."  
Natasha's right, so is Sam.  
He takes the scissors to his hair, cuts it short. Channeling some long dead part of him that he thinks he needs.  
Quiet, "I know you didn't do this, not on purpose. I'm sittin' here blaming you because it's easier than feeling bad for myself."  
He catches his own eye in the mirror, and he isn't sure how he's meant to feel. His hair is choppy and uneven, but he swells a bit with pride because it's his. He cut it with his own hands, and for a moment, he's his own Bucky. Not a dead boy, not a weapon, not a fossil. Something new, instead. Something roughed and fine despite it, like his hair.  
For a moment, he feels astoundingly alive. He catches a glimpse of a ghost and says, "I'm always gonna love you, you know that. I'm always gonna hurt. And I bet you hurt, too, when you thought I kicked it."  
He remembers when Sam told him that it's okay to take it slow. Because nothing happens all at once, it's tiny increments. It's looking in the mirror, it's cutting your hair.  
"So, yeah," He holds his own gaze with intensity, "This isn't goodbye. This is just- I don't know. I'm sad, but I think I'm okay. So just... Just don't worry about me, yeah?"

  
Bucky goes to sleep in his bed for the first time since it was shared.


End file.
